


Do Deserts Dream of Butterfly Wings?

by strawberrycheesecake



Series: Supermassive Black Hole [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrycheesecake/pseuds/strawberrycheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Repercussions from Altaïr's previous encounter with Al Mualim lead to Abbas making some bad choices. Things play out differently. Altaïr gets hurt a lot. Malik is not very happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the title. Basically, I love Philip K. Dick, attempt to be deep, and am bad at coming up with titles.  
> The rumor Al Mualim mentioned in the previous fic plays a larger part in this. (See, this is a well thought out and structured fic, not indulgent at all.)  
> Basically my thought process for what happened is that everyone is too scared of a bloodied Altaïr standing there and burning bodies, so Abbas never gets the chance to grab the Apple and convince people to attack Altaïr. Therefore he waits in the darkness and *plots*.

“You need more rest,” Malik told Altaïr.

“I am resting,” Altaïr replied sullenly.

 “You’re still limping,” Malik pointed out.

They were taking a walk in the village. It was just after midday, the sun beat down mercilessly and people only ventured out if they absolutely had to, preferring the cool comfort of their homes. This ought to give them more space, which Malik seemed to view as an opportunity for staring at Altaïr more often than he would have liked.

“That is to be expected,” Altaïr said. “You saw what he did.”

As he spoke, he felt as if the events in the garden happened recently – but why shouldn’t he? It _was_ recent. It had been only two days ago when he rode into Masyaf. Still, so many things had happened since that day, so it was natural for him to feel distanced, wasn’t it? He had certainly kept busy. But he had rallied his brothers’ support, and things were getting back on track, which meant that he couldn’t take the time to rest.

“I’m glad you burnt him,” Malik said vehemently.

“It was for precaution,” Altaïr felt the inexplicable urge to clarify. “The others didn’t take to it too kindly, though.”

For a while then he had feared that there might be trouble, but the sight of him standing there, covered in blood, had ostensibly caused greater distress to the other assassins. Rauf later informed him that they thought he looked ready to kill should anyone take a step closer. In reality he was steadying himself against the pain that flooded through his body, ergo the strained look, but he supposed that they had not really misinterpreted his feelings too much, either. Whatever their reasons, the assassins had stayed still long enough for him to explain the events that had previously occurred, and they had believed him. So far there seemed to be no further trouble, for that he was secretly thankful, even though he thought Abbas had given him some strange looks, but that was to be expected of the man. He had wronged Altaïr, thought him despicable. Truthfully, Altaïr hadn’t done his best to placate him either, treating him with a mixture of conceit and contempt – as he did everyone. Wariness crept into Altaïr’s mind. Now that he thought of it, Abbas had eyed the Piece of Eden in a particular way. But he had hidden the Apple, so it was safe now, and he needed not to worry too much about it.

“They heeded you,” said Malik in reply to his words. “As they should.” He sounded almost proud.

“You speak kindlier than you used to, why?” Altaïr muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Just an observation,” said Altaïr. “It’s nothing important … not worth repeating.”

“How is your arm?” Malik asked.

“Tolerable,” Altaïr said. The injury was not as severe as it could be, and he should regain full function of his right arm soon – though not soon enough. It already left life extremely inconvenient. Altaïr sneaked a glance at Malik’s stump and was filled with remorse, which was why, when Malik pressed the issue of resting again, he agreed to it.

“If that’s what you wish.”

Malik looked at him, surprised, “That took less effort than I had thought – but never mind, I’m glad that you see sense.”

Now that he had thought about it, Altaïr did feel tired. His room was high up, he liked looking out at the view – a secret indulgence, but currently simply the thought of making the trek up there exhausted him. Malik’s room was closer. “Your room?” he said, hoping that Malik had been so taken aback with his sudden compliance that he would not think much of it, or refuse.

Malik looked even more surprised, but he nodded and led the way.

Altaïr had meant to take a small nap to placate Malik, but when he woke up night had already fallen. Malik was at his desk, reading something. Altaïr rubbed his eyes and sat up.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“You’ll remember that before he left, Jabal requested more men, saying that he finds himself understaffed, and I am seeing who might be suitable,” Malik answered.

“I do remember,” Altaïr said. “And I was the one to ask you to see to it, if _you_ ’ll remember.”

“You know I wasn’t implying that you have a bad memory, right?”

“Yes.”

After a while Altaïr decided to continue their conversation. “It’s no wonder that Jabal is understaffed,” he said. “No one likes Acre. The landscape is not very inspiring.”

Malik laughed at that. “I wasn’t aware you had these sentiments.”

“I can appreciate beauty,” Altaïr said quietly. “Damascus and Jerusalem, these cities had beauty.”

“Oh, which one did you prefer, then?” Malik said, lightly.

“Jerusalem,” said Altaïr. “Even … even if at first the Dai would not stop giving me grief. I deserved it, of course.”

Malik’s reply came slowly. “You don’t need to continue thinking about that. I’m, uh, happy to know that I didn’t ruin Jerusalem for you.”

“To tell the truth, I might have liked the city better, _because_ of him,” Altaïr said, staring at the ground, so he saw Malik’s feet before the man was upon him, pulling his head up, pushing his lips open with his tongue, kissing him.

Altaïr returned the kiss hungrily, and everything in the world felt right in that moment. It was only when they stopped, gasping for breath, when he realized that everything in the world was not right and he had many things to do.

“I – I must go now,” Altaïr said, pushing him up to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, Malik.”

“You can stay if you want,” Malik said.

“No, no,” Altaïr made his way towards the door. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“What are you talking about?” Malik looked extremely bemused. “You’ve stayed here, overnight, before.”

Altaïr made no answer to that. He was thinking about his former teacher’s words about certain rumors surrounding him. Altaïr did not know if the old man was simply making up lies to spite him, or if they had been circulating, due to whatever absurd reason. He had no idea why anyone would say such things about him, he hadn’t been promiscuous, nor did he care. But it was better to take more precaution, with Malik’s reputation anyway. He thought vaguely about investigating these rumors, if he had time and the energy tomorrow.

 

In the setting sun, Abbas thought about the future.

Abbas never trusted Altaïr, and it wasn’t in the way that most in the brotherhood mistrusted him – thinking that his arrogance was going to get them killed, it was because Altaïr was a liar and manipulator. Even when he had fucked up so spectacularly in the Temple of Solomon mission, he had only earned a light reprimand from Al Mualim: stripped of his ranks, true, but still sent on the most important assassinations, and climbed back up just as quickly. At the end, simply having Al Mualim under his influence seemed not enough, and he disposed of his teacher, who had taught him so much and without whom Altaïr would never amount to anything. He managed to sway the brotherhood to his side with a ridiculous story of Al Mualim’s “sinister” ambitions, Abbas had meant to call him out right then, and take the artifact that Altaïr had claimed to be so important, but the chance flickered and was gone, and he had to bide his time.

Earlier that day, Altaïr and Malik had gone out together in the scorching sun, allegedly for a walk. The two had been almost inseparable since Al Mualim’s death. Abbas thought that it was no surprise that Altaïr had won over the order, if he could still wrap Malik around his little finger when the other man had every reason to hate him.

Though, if some rumors were to be believed, Altaïr had a special way of gaining favor with other people. Abbas smirked a little when he thought of these unlikely stories – unlikely not because he thought that Altaïr would not stoop so low, but because it was difficult to imagine him actually _seducing_ anyone and actually _succeed_. Abbas only liked women himself, and was no expert in determining what kind of men attracted other men, but whatever way he looked at it, he could see no appealing features in Altaïr. Still, these tales were oddly detailed, and sometimes Abbas found himself wondering.

Abbas wandered through the fortress, immersed in his thoughts, and it was almost too late when he became aware of people talking. Usually, running into people wasn’t an unpleasant affair, but the voice he heard belonged to Rauf, Altaïr’s foremost adherent since the death of Kadar Al-Sayf, the man was all but ready to fall on the ground and lick Altaïr’s boots every time the man “helped” him instructing his students. So, no, Abbas did not want to see his face.

It was too late to turn the other way, thus Abbas swiftly hid in a corner. For some reason there was a bench there. He sat on it, because people sat on benches.

“I’m worried about Altaïr,” Rauf was saying. “I think he’s hurt rather badly.”

“We’ve all seen his shoulder, Rauf, and saw him covered in blood, we know what it’s like,” sighed his friend, obviously sick of him mooning over Altaïr.

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, he’s hurt more badly than we know. You saw how he was limping, and he looks so tired. He won’t go to the doctor, says that Malik is enough help.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to show weakness, you know the situation isn’t … quite stable,” the other assassin said. “And he has a lot of work to do, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s tired. I’m sure if the situation gets out of hand he’ll seek help – wait, I’m talking about Altaïr, aren’t I? Forget I said that. Perhaps you are right to worry.”

Rauf laughed, nervously. “I am serious, though,” he insisted. “But you may be right in saying that he doesn’t want to show weakness. He did try to cover his wounds with Malik’s robes after his fight with Al – Rashid.”

“Though why he thought that would work is beyond me,” his friend said. “Your idol has a very strange mind, Rauf. But if he’s trying to conceal his current situation, it would be best if you do not speak of your suspicions to everyone.”

“I know I can trust you,” said Rauf.

“But walls have ears.”

 _Wisely said_ , thought Abbas, _still, not wise enough to realize that the walls are listening right now. I have learned some interesting things._

 

Even after Altaïr’s demotion to novice, he still kept his old room. It did not make much difference practically, he never stayed the night in Masyaf anyway, only coming back to report on his missions and occasionally helping out Rauf. It was the gesture that irritated Abbas, the implication that Altaïr’s demotion was merely a façade, a temporary show to satisfy the appearance of upholding the Creed, and he would reclaim everything as soon as enough time passed – and apparently the time was not long enough to merit a disruption of the housing arrangements.

Abbas viewed Altaïr’s room with a skeptical eye. It was tidy enough, Altaïr apparently mustered up the energy to dust it, or had some novices do it for him. The only mess was the mass of mats in the corner. Every assassin had complained about sleeping in the mats when they stayed in the bureaus, but not Altaïr, he always seemed right at home, even saying one time that he felt no displeasure with the arrangement and that he found it “fun.” Everyone stared at him like he was a freak.

This room was not the most ideal place for concealing objects. It was kept bare except for the most necessary elements, and a couple of potted plants, which looked like any plant you would find growing in the dirt – Altaïr probably just took a shovel and dug them out, Abbas frown in distain. On the other hand, it might be just what the owner would want intruders to think. He started to search methodically through the room.

He hoped to find anything Altaïr had hidden, for whatever purpose. He knew that the chance of actually discovering anything of relevance was small, but it did not mean that he should simply abandon the effort. Anyway, he was more likely to get information rummaging through Altaïr’s spare sets of robes than going up and interrogate him personally. Whatever Abbas might have felt for the man, he had to admit that Altaïr could stick to a story pretty adamantly, he was no weakling.

Abbas started rummaging through Altaïr’s spare sets of robes, folded up neatly in a pile.

What he hoped to find, more than proof and/or explanation of Altaïr’s mysterious injuries that he wanted no one to know, was the Golden Apple, the Piece of Eden Altaïr had claimed Al Mualim used to control them all. The Apple was central to Altaïr’s plans, it had been the beginning and end of everything, and it was obvious Altaïr intended for no one else but himself to be in possession of it. That, in Abbas’ mind, was the only reason he needed to find the Apple, and use it.

Suddenly, Abbas felt his fingers hit something. It was obviously no supernatural artifact, it was small and smooth, _and hidden beneath a pile of robes_. Abbas pulled it out.

It was a small jar. _Poison?_ Abbas’ mind supplied him with the guess. Poison wasn’t something the order looked too kindly upon, but if Altaïr were using poison, surely even he would not be such a fool to leave it in close vicinity of his clothes. No, not poison.

Abbas opened the bottle, intrigued. There was some sort of ointment inside the jar, it had clearly been used. _Why hide it though?_ For an instant Abbas entertained himself with the notion of Altaïr secretly dousing his skin with oils and serums women used to keep their skin soft and smooth. He put a finger inside it, and he suddenly realized what it was.

He had seen it on his visits to whorehouses. The prostitutes there used this sort of substance, to make entries easier, not that Abbas ever needed to use it, he always had them wet and willing – unless when he took less conventional approaches. They used a different container for that, of course, but what was inside was one and the same.

Abbas put the container down, thinking of the rumors he had dismissed, and laughed.

_This, is an unexpected – but what else should I have expected? – discovery._

Right at that moment, Altaïr pushed open the door and walked in. The timing could not be more perfect. Abbas turned to face him, shoving the jar in his robes in the process.

He caught a glimpse of Altaïr’s original expression before it shifted – Altaïr looked almost happy, for whatever reason. _Probably just had a bit of fun with Malik, or whomever_ , Abbas thought. Also, he felt that he could safely say Altaïr was not at his best, if he could not notice Abbas searching through his things before walking in and catching him at it.

Altaïr looked furious. “What are you doing here? Get out.”

“Why?” Abbas asked with a sneer. “Are you expecting someone else, and don’t want to be disturbed?”

“You have the last part right. I don’t want to be disturbed. Now get out, do I have to say it thrice?”

“I thought whores were meant to be more accommodating,” said Abbas. “Or are you playing hard to get? Is that your style, _Altaïr_?”

Altaïr looked passably indignant at the remark, “ _Whore_? What are you—?” Then he looked as if realization had just dawned on him, “Oh, for – I can’t believe it, _you_ ’ve been listening to the rumors, have you?”

“Oh, so you know about the rumors, do you?” Abbas laughed. “I thought you were going to deny the whole thing completely, say that I’m mad and sprouting nonsense. I would never have thought you’d be interested in _gossip_ , but I suppose you’re vain enough to be happy with all the nice things they say about you.”

“You…” Altaïr shook his head. “These rumors are lies, Abbas. And, no, I’m not interested in gossip. I’ve only learnt of their existence a couple of days ago.”

“ _A couple of days ago_?” Abbas laughed even more heartily at Altaïr’s feeble excuses. “These stories have been going around for years now. Well, what are you going to say next, I wonder? A couple of days ago – I suppose Al Mualim told you of their existence before you plunged a sword in his chest?”

Altaïr colored. “Get out.”

“And you did say it thrice,” Abbas grinned. “But I’m still here. I suppose you could make me, but are you up to the task? Tell me, your right arm, can you move it at all?”

“I’m ready enough to get rid of you,” Altaïr said, but he made no move towards Abbas – an obvious bluff.

“Oh,” said Abbas. “But, tell me, Altaïr, if you’re not a whore, why do you need use for this?” He took the jar out of his robes.

Altaïr colored even more furiously than before, when he settled his eyes on it. “Why do you have it? And it’s none of your business.”

“I might make it my business,” Abbas said. “We were friends, weren’t we? Surely you don’t find me so repellant.”

“I find you so now,” Altaïr said. “If that’s what you think, then I’m a fool for ever trying to salvage our friendship.”

“You never _tried_ ,” Abbas shouted, now letting his anger rise to the surface. “You told lies and never repented. If you wanted my friendship you would have told the truth about my father, instead of slandering his name!”

Altaïr looked at him, with a look in his eyes that Abbas disliked wholeheartedly. It wasn’t even his usual brand of dust-beneath-my-boots superiority, it looked more like pity and Abbas saw red. He drew his sword before he was even aware of what he was doing, and he wanted to hurt Altaïr as much as his fabrications hurt him.

Altaïr moved, though not as effortlessly as he used to, held down by his injuries, but, still, Abbas’ swing did not cut him. With his right arm bandaged and useless, he could only use his weapons with his left hand, and they were placed on the wrong side, and before Altaïr could pull anything out Abbas was on him again. Altaïr dodged another attack, but Abbas had him back to the wall now.

“You seem to be holding back on your promise to throw me out of your room,” Abbas said, pointing his sword at Altaïr’s chest.

Altaïr’s eyes darted from the sword to Abbas and then to the space behind him. He said nothing. Then he made his move.

It was difficult not to have some degree of admiration for Altaïr’s combat skills, and Abbas was willing to admit that. He was not as deluded as Altaïr sometimes implied, or stated outright. Altaïr, despite looking ready to fall over any moment, moved like lightning, and within the blink of an eye he was behind Abbas, and Abbas felt a sting on his neck. Realizing that Altaïr had extended his hidden blade, his first thought was that this would be his last sensation before his life expired, but the sting was a minor one, and as he raised his hand to his neck, he realized that it was only a small cut.

Altaïr said, “I don’t want to kill you. And even you, Abbas, with all your misconceptions about my character, could realize how easy it was for me to simply slice through your artery just then?”

Abbas thought about it a moment, and he nearly agreed with Altaïr before his heart exploded with everything it had inside and he snarled, “What a shame you didn’t when you had the chance, because I am not going to be bought by your little display of mercy.”

Altaïr stared at him, looking regretful – no doubt of the fact that he underestimated Abbas’ clarity of mind and thought that he could finally trick him this time.

“What a pity you chose to live in such secluded quarters,” Abbas said. “Otherwise someone might have heard you scream and come to investigate.”

Altaïr said nothing. Abbas attacked once again.

It seemed that Altaïr’s previous maneuver had taken nearly everything out of him, and the exhaustion showed. Soon Altaïr had his back against another wall, facing the door this time, and he had not come out of the fight unscathed. Among the casualties were one of Altaïr’s potted plants, now on the floor, pot broken, and Abbas had taken care to step on it. His old wounds had also opened under the strain, bleeding through his white garments, and Abbas was happy to see that he had added some of his own as well. He was also limping … rather oddly during the end of their brief fight.

“Surely you didn’t let anyone fuck you in your condition?” Abbas asked, incredulous. He had thought that maybe Altaïr had a bit of fun, but strictly above the waist – he could not be as wanton as that. Altaïr made no reply. Abbas looked at him, and suddenly he remembered that Altaïr had been limping ever since he killed Al Mualim and came out wearing Malik’s robes—

“I can’t believe you,” Abbas breathed. “ _You_ … with _Al Mualim_? Before you killed him?”

Altaïr glared at him, refusing to speak, but he was bleeding out and had a sword at his throat, so it might be somewhat natural that he was disinclined to do so. The fact that he did not think to deny it angrily at once and defend his honor was proof enough for Abbas, however.

And now everything made sense. Al Mualim’s favoritism concerning Altaïr, the looks he sometimes gave him, the leniency he employed when it came to matters of this particular student of his … even Altaïr’s rescue of him that resulted in Altaïr advancing to the rank of Master at mere twenty-five. Abbas laughed hollowly, and there he was, trying to gain their Mentor’s favor by working hard, when all he had to do was offer up his ass! Looking back, it was simply all just pointless. How Altaïr must have laughed behind his back.

Altaïr was trying to read his expression. Abbas grabbed his right shoulder and hissed in his ear, “Tell me, does Al Mualim like it rough? I can tell by the way you’re walking. Is that why you decided to kill him? Is he too much for even the likes of you?”

“I have nothing to say to you, believe what you will,” Altaïr said, his breath hitching under the pressure Abbas put onto his wound.

“To think, I tried so hard to let the Master like me, as he liked you.”

Altaïr – who never laughed – snorted, duplicating Abbas’ earlier hollowness in mockery, “I would gladly trade places with you, may he like you in the way he liked me.”

“Did you offer yourself to him?” Abbas demanded. “And when you regained your rank, thinking that he was no longer useful, did you go to him, with your wiles, and attack him when he least expected it? And you had Malik ready with help, but Al Mualim got to you. It wasn’t as easy as you had planned. He was your teacher after all.”

“You seem to have a very clear version of events. What do you need me for? You won’t believe me if I deny them. You never have – and I’ve said this many times as well.”

Abbas roared, and in his fury he threw his blade to the ground and took hold of Altaïr’s left shoulder and turned him around so he now faced the door, holding his right arm behind him.  He moved Altaïr roughly enough that there was an ugly “pop” when he did that. The right arm was dislocated.

To his credit, Altaïr did not scream, or maybe the pain was too much for that. Abbas did not care. But now he thought about it, he would rather not be attacked by noise if he could help it. Looking around frantically, he saw one of Malik’s maps atop Altaïr’s desk right next to them, and he grabbed it hastily, crunched it in a ball, grabbed Altaïr’s hair to turn his head away from the wall, and tried to push the impromptu gag inside his mouth. Altaïr fought back, but he had only one functioning arm and not a lot of strength left, so Abbas slapped him, smashing his head against the wall in the process, and did what he wanted anyway.

“I’ll tell Malik I’m sorry for messing with his map,” Abbas told Altaïr, laughing in his face. The other assassin did not avert his gaze, and Abbas found that hate boiled inside him in such a way that he could not bear to have that golden color staring at him. Almost instinctively, he bashed Altaïr’s head against the wall again. Altaïr made a muffled cry at impact.

“Now,” said Abbas, “I have to admit that I am curious. How is that you manage to ensnare so many? The best way, I suppose,” he took out the lube that he had shoved back into his robes before the fight, “is to have a taste myself.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is explicit content, Rauf being confused, and one-sided conversations that manage to go on longer than they should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abbas' thought process is probably very disturbing here and I apologize in advance. It's a very horrible thing he's doing in this fic, and he's justifying it all the time.

On his way towards Altaïr’s room, Rauf rehearsed what he was going to say.

“Altaïr, it seems my students do not fully understand…” he stopped. Would it be wise to start as he usually did? The truth was that he was worried about Altaïr, and the incompetence of the novices had always been his sole cover when it came to showing his concern. During Altaïr’s demotion, it had been easy and natural enough to come up to him and mention that his students were being hopeless and needed guidance. Right now, however, it was night, and it seemed strange that he would go to Altaïr’s room to simply talk about students.

But, surely, he and Altaïr were friends? Was it not normal for friends to worry about each other? Then again, the “friend” in question was Altaïr, who eschewed all emotion, who never changed his expression or even his tone of voice, whose perfection when it came to the art of killing probably left other skills (for example, social interaction) no space to develop.

Rauf sighed, he had hoped to find Altaïr during the daytime so he could save himself from the awkwardness, but Altaïr had disappeared, last seen going out for a walk in the village with Malik. Malik had appeared sometime after, sans Master Assassin, and before Rauf could reach him, Malik had disappeared again to his room, and Rauf was slightly uncomfortable about going to Malik’s _room_ to simply inquire after Altaïr’s whereabouts.

Nevertheless, it had been Malik who had told him to find Altaïr when they ran into each other a short while ago. Rauf had blurted out that he had been looking for Altaïr.

“He’s in his room, I would think,” said Malik, frowning a little, as if unhappy about something.

“Has he gone to bed? Then perhaps I _should_ wait until morning.”

“Do you have something urgent to say to him?” Malik asked.

“Uh, no,” Rauf thought about it, he could tell Malik of his concerns, given his relationship with Altaïr, and he would be the best man to judge whether his uneasiness was unfounded … or not. “I’m just a little worried about him.”

Malik regarded him with an incomprehensible look, and said, “Well … I don’t think he’d be asleep yet. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Really?” Rauf asked, surprised.

“By all means, do,” Malik sighed. “It might cheer him up. Not that anyone can tell what he’s thinking.” He looked a little sad when he said that. Rauf pretended to have overlooked that. Malik had always been frightening, which was part of the reason for Rauf’s reluctance to pay a visit to his room, and Rauf doubted he would appreciate anyone noticing him displaying weakness.

So here he was, climbing the stairs like any socially acceptable person. (Unlike Altaïr, he jumped down the stairs, if he ever took the stairs instead of climbing down walls, because he was Altaïr and that was he did.)

At last he reached Altaïr’s room, still unaware of what to say.

To his surprise, the door was ajar, and as he walked closer he could hear some odd noises. Living souls rarely visited this part of the fortress, save for Malik, assassins who came to talk about assassin business (even before Altaïr had his transformation he sometimes did that, _sometimes_ ), and cats. Unable to contain his curiosity, Rauf took a peek inside the room.

His first reaction was: how did Malik get to Altaïr’s room before he did? Had he climbed the walls? But _how_?

His second reaction: _that’s not Malik_.

What he could see in the dimly lit room was: Altaïr was facing the wall, and all Rauf could see was the back of his head. (Rauf realized that he could recognize Altaïr simply by the back of his head. _This means we must be friends, right?_ ) There was another person behind Altaïr, also facing the wall, obscuring most of Altaïr’s body from Rauf’s point of view, and that person was not Malik because he was wearing white and Rauf disregarded the notion of Malik playing some sort of dress-up to enhance his bedroom sessions with Altaïr because that person _had both arms_ and wait he was talking and judging by his voice was that _Abbas_?

Abbas said, “Is that pleasurable for you, _Altaïr_?” He pronounced Altaïr’s name like it was something dirtily erotic, and Rauf turned bright red just by hearing that tone. And Abbas had something in one hand, and he was applying it … Rauf turned redder. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now,” Abbas continued. “Better to get you ready. Now, it’s my first time with a man, and you should be patient with me.”

Altaïr groaned, and to Rauf’s ears it was more sensual than it had any right to be. Abbas seemed to agree, as he slapped Altaïr’s ass and said, sounding pleased, “I knew you’d be obliging.” And he seemed to be done with his previous task, and he set the jar he had in his hand on the desk nearby and pulled back … and he pushed in.

Rauf fled at that moment, Altaïr’s moans resounding in his ears, making some very strange music with the blood that was pumping there as well.

 

As he removed Altaïr’s clothing, Abbas could feel the excitement thickening and hardening in his groins. He wondered absent-mindedly if that was Altaïr’s appeal, did people get hard thinking about having the oh-so-mighty one under them, fucking the superiority out of him until he was nothing but their bitch? Abbas dipped his fingers in the jar.

He could see and feel the signs of sex – and probably unconventional sex at that, and for some reason his arousal grew with his revulsion. “So this is Al Mualim’s doing,” he whispered in Altaïr’s ear while he prepared him. “I almost feel sorry for you, almost.” Altaïr tried to headbutt him, but his attempt was weak and came to nothing, he stopped struggling soon enough. Abbas probed deep with his fingers, and, to his satisfaction, felt Altaïr shaking.

“Is that pleasurable for you, _Altaïr_?” he emphasized the name, appreciating how the sounds rolled off his tongue. To think how he detested what they had represented! Now they were almost music to his ears. _Altaïr, Altaïr, Altaïr, listen to how I am calling your name, remember that it is you and I who are in this situation, and do not forget._

“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now, better to get you ready,” Abbas spoke with mock sincerity as he lubricated with rough gestures. “Now, it’s my first time with a man, and you should be patient with me.”

He had no curiosity for what Altaïr was trying to say in response, even though he admitted that hearing his muffled voice under the gag made him harder, which was a miracle in itself. So he slapped Altaïr’s ass – feeling him shake again, with anger this time – and said, “I knew you’d be obliging.” He put the jar of ointment away, and got ready.

For his first time with a man, Abbas thought that he performed admirably. Altaïr had moaned again when he was not even halfway in, a desperate sound. Abbas did not much care if he was moaning in desperation because he wanted more, or because he wanted less. Either way it showed that Abbas was more than enough for him to take – what a compliment.

Abbas paused at the moan, relishing in the warmth wrapped around his cock, and the thought of more to come. He withdrew, leaving his tip at the entrance, taunting, Altaïr’s body radiating confusion because it could not understand Abbas’ actions – only halfway and then nothing at all.

And Abbas pushed again, all the way in this time. Despite what Al Mualim had done, Altaïr was still tight enough for him, and the sensation – so different from a woman – was more than satisfying. He had his hands on Altaïr’s hips, gripping him hard enough to bruise – which would go well enough with the ones that had already formed and were attempting to fade.

It dawned on Abbas, just then, that Altaïr probably was more than a little confused, he had taken quite a hard hit in the head, and he was losing blood, after all. He was making little throaty whimpers as Abbas enjoyed his thrusts. Abbas did not think that a coherent Altaïr could make these sounds, so wrecked and so utterly erotic that Abbas almost came right then and now, then he remembered Altaïr was a whore, so it might be on purpose, if not, then he was acting instinctively and he was still a whore.

“It’s a shame I dismissed those stories,” Abbas whispered. “I should have acted sooner, what fun I would have had.”

It truly was a shame, Abbas thought with impassive remorse, because after he was done with Altaïr he was going to kill him.

The urge hit him and he bit the nape of Altaïr’s neck, sucking on the skin, Altaïr squirmed feebly, the movement sending jolts of pleasure through Abbas’ body. So he moved to another spot, drawing circles with his tongue before biting down, Altaïr jerked, and Abbas liked that as well. He moved on. Even the sight of darkening bruises appearing on Altaïr’s skin satisfied him in a way that made his cock twitch.

He moved his right hand, caressing Altaïr’s back as he went, eventually placed on his wounded shoulder. Abbas pushed in again, his raised hand providing support for the momentum. A sound rolled in the depth of Altaïr’s throat, and his whole body shook. Instinctively he tried to be stoic and his muscles contracted, trying to fend of the pain. He tightened around Abbas’ still hard cock, causing him to groan a little in ecstasy.

“That’s the way to do it,” he muttered. “You really are very good at this.”

Altaïr made no indication of response.

“I am reasonable,” Abbas said in his ear. “I hate seeing you not enjoying this.”

Altaïr responded satisfactorily this time, when Abbas’s left hand grabbed his cock. By “satisfactorily,” Abbas meant that at least he stopped playing dead, though he would have liked it better if Altaïr hadn’t been acting like he was trying to get away. “Now, now, am I alarming you?” Abbas asked in mock concern, as he started to move his hand.

Despite his lack of finesse, the recipient still grew hard after a few crude caresses. Testimony to his own nature, Abbas thought. He had not been touching him with loving tenderness, rather, it was hurried, and probably slightly painful, but he had alternated the pacing.

Nice as it was, buried deep in Altaïr, feeling him trying to gain control of himself and failing, Abbas soon grew bored with it. He really had no interest in pleasuring Altaïr, the urge only arising in the heat of the moment, he did not know why he did it – except for a vague inkling that Altaïr might detest it. The thought of Abbas taking advantage of his wantonness would probably be unbearable for the arrogant one. Nevertheless, the urge had now died, and Abbas felt that more enjoyment was to be had with a more active approach, so he stopped stroking Altaïr’s cock and started pumping again, his hand pushing against the other man’s shoulder with every move.

After a while Abbas felt himself close to the edge. The thought struck him that this was indeed his first time with a man, and with one he always hated, at that. The situation suddenly confused him, but then his fingers caught hold of Altaïr’s flushed skin, and the warmth of it burnt every intelligible thought out of his head and he lost himself again, coming inside his longtime enemy – and former friend, once upon a time ago.

Abbas did not withdraw after he finished, mashing his body against Altaïr’s, the proximity of their bodies did not bother him: he chose this closeness and Altaïr did not. Altaïr had not come, rather, he stilled his body rather hopelessly while Abbas spent himself inside him. Now Abbas felt him sliding against the wall, and realized that Altaïr could hardly stand. He pulled out, watched with satisfaction as semen dripped down Altaïr’s thighs, white and red, rather a good mix on him. Altaïr leant against the wall, but it was no help, and without Abbas steadying him this time, he slid down some more, his left hand trying desperately to grab onto something, to no avail.

Abbas thought about it, and felt his cock twitch, hardening again. He supposed he could have another go before he ended Altaïr’s life. This time, it might be nice to see his face.

Thinking about Altaïr’s eyes this time, he felt no anger, but only a smug sort of triumph. It was with this feeling of triumph that Abbas grabbed hold of Altaïr and threw him, face up, on the desk. Quills, documents, ink, and books crashed to the ground as Altaïr’s back made contact, though the man did not seem to notice the sound, and looked up at him with vacant eyes. Abbas could hear him breathing with strain, the gag was still working well. He mused on the possibility of removing the gag and hearing Altaïr’s screams as he fucked him this time, but decided to keep things as they were. Altaïr might be _stunned_ by the night’s proceedings, but he might still be lucid enough to talk, and Abbas did not want to hear Altaïr talk.

Abbas moved closer to the desk. Altaïr’s legs were almost hanging off the edge, which suited his purposes perfectly. He spread open Altaïr’s legs without paying much attention to what he was doing, did not meet with much struggle, looked down at the scene in front of him, and the naked exposure of Altaïr’s body somehow affected him in a blaze that was almost like lightning – the previous fuck up against the wall did him no justice in this aspect.

Even after he had fucked the man and reminded himself often enough during it of the fact, there was nothing that satisfied him as much as having the sight of Altaïr’s nakedness right in front of his eyes. His legs, lean and muscled and those legs had carried him to the top of towers, churches, mosques, letting him observe cities in their magnificence or squalor, and now, today, they were simply something for Abbas to look at in a haze of lust. Abbas found that he did not worry about his own lack of clarity in the mind. There was no little voice telling him that giving himself up to his urges was a bad idea. He continued.

Abbas forewent lubrication this time, feeling the urgency of his erection. It was unnecessary in any case: Altaïr was open and pliant from the fuck earlier, the position also allowed Abbas better access.

Due to his eagerness, Abbas pushed in rather quickly. Resistance was minimal. There was only a gentle, pleasurable feeling as Abbas felt his cock surrounded by warm flesh.

Abbas grabbed Altaïr’s thighs and began moving with harsher motions, slamming inside and out. He looked at Altaïr’s face, and saw to his minor disappointment that the other man’s eyes were half closed and there was no sign that he was even aware of what was happening.

Despite Altaïr’s lack of reaction, Abbas was still lost in the frenzy of the moment. Soon he felt himself ready to spill his seed again.

When he finally spent himself inside Altaïr, Abbas pulled out. He cleaned himself and straightened his robes. When he looked presentable enough, Altaïr seemed to have become slightly more coherent, as he had his eyes on Abbas. His expression might be blank but he was obviously more sensible to the situation now. Abbas thought about it, and this time he pulled out Altaïr’s gag.

Altaïr coughed, and managed out a “So this is over then?” His voice was weak and it seemed to take all his strength just maintaining enough volume to be heard.

“Yes,” Abbas said.

“Should I be grateful that you allowed me to speak my final words before you killed me?” Usually Altaïr distained the act of speaking, obviously seeing others as inferior to him, so the fact that he would choose to speak in long sentences surprised Abbas somewhat, not that it was anything important.

“I don’t care,” Abbas said. “I am just curious if you’ll finally speak the truth, faced with death.”

“Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” Altaïr replied.

“This is not a very fitting thing to say on your deathbed,” Abbas said.

“I’m dying at your hands, aren’t I?” Altaïr managed to almost sound mocking. “That is what I would call unfitting, dying this meaningless death. How are you planning to kill me, Abbas? Sword to the heart? Knife to the neck? Or better yet, decapitate me, after the fashion of my father, thanks to your father’s betrayal?”

Abbas wrapped his fingers around Altaïr’s neck. “Wrong. I would much prefer to feel your life slipping underneath my fingers.” He started squeezing. ~~~~

Rauf did not remember the journey exactly, but he made his way down the stairs, and presumably went in circles for a while before he went into the courtyard, where he came face to face with Malik, who had not gone to bed, for whatever reason.

Rauf did not want to see Malik right now, because when he saw Malik, what he had just witnessed burst into sound and color again, and – _should he tell Malik about that?_

“Well, you took your time,” said Malik, looking hopeful and that almost made Rauf cry. “How did your conversation with Altaïr go? Did you cheer him up by praising his sword maneuvers and telling him that the novices of Masyaf would be lost without the guidance of his masterly work?”

“Uh, no,” said Rauf.

“What did you talk about, then?”

“Nothing … much,” Rauf hesitated. “Look, Malik, you and Altaïr…”

“Yes, what about it?” Malik looked at him.

“Is it serious between you two?” Rauf asked before he could stop himself.

Malik looked shocked. “What are you talking about?”

“Your … thing … that you have going on,” Rauf hated having to spell things on, it only made things even more awkward, but Malik seemed adamant on pretending not to understand.

“We don’t have a thing going on,” Malik said, and he really seemed very definite about that fact. Rauf’s mind turned, it seemed that everything he perceived about Altaïr – on the romance front at least – had been twisted around, flipped on its backside and stabbed several times with a short blade in the way Altaïr liked to do it: brutally and, frankly, very disturbingly.

“Wait, but I was sure…” Rauf rubbed his head. “So you’re not together?”

“No,” Malik said. “Why would you think that?”

“Oh, never mind,” Rauf breathed out, relieved. “Thank Allah, I thought … and I had been worried when I saw … I was worrying about whether to tell you!”

“Wait, what are you talking about? What did you see?” And Malik was suddenly in his face, for some reason.

“I went up to his room,” said Rauf. “And I saw he and Abbas … you know.” He couldn’t say it, so he made a gesture.

And Malik exploded.

“Did you say Abbas?” his voice was low, but it struck Rauf harder than a shout. “ _Abbas_? That despicable deceiving little _bastard_ – I’m going to _kill_ him.”

 “Wait, what? Kill him?” Rauf now had no clear grasp of the situation, but he caught on to keywords and adjusted his responses accordingly. “Don’t be rash—”

“Oh, I’m not being rash,” Malik said as he made his (very rushed) way towards Altaïr and Abbas. “I am making a conscious decision to kill him, very rationally and reasonably.”

“But, the brotherhood—”

“That’s no brother of mine!”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a thing with Altaïr!”

“That was a lie, we were being discreet, and even if I didn’t I’m still going to kill him.”

The second part made no sense to Rauf, but he supposed that was the sort of illogical thing vehemently jealous people would say.

“I can’t believe it,” Malik was saying. “I had thought him capable of many things, but _this_? Though to tell the truth, I cannot understand how that might even happen. We are talking about Abbas, of all people. Admittedly,” he sighed, something that he seemed to be accustomed to be doing of late, “Altaïr’s not at his best.”

“Does that mean you won’t kill him?” Rauf asked hopefully.

“What? Why would you think that?” Malik looked at him like _he_ , Rauf, was the one driven to madness. “I am going to gut him.”

And they arrived at the door. Malik kicked the door open, and before Rauf could stop him he had a throwing knife in his hand, and, judging by the outraged howl, attacked Abbas with it.

Rauf’s first reaction was: so Malik’s intended target was Abbas, not Altaïr. That was a good thing. Or not so good, because Abbas was still one of their brothers—

His second reaction: even if Malik had come in to kill Altaïr, he would probably have little chance of that, because he was lying on a desk and not moving, despite of things taking a very different turn. And if Rauf’s eyes had not deceived him, it seemed that Abbas had been quite fixated on strangling him before he took a knife in the back.

His third reaction: _I have made a terrible mistake concerning the present situation._

Malik’s flying knife stopped what Abbas was doing, but it did not incapacitate him. He drew his weapon and stood there, clearly evaluating the two of them, planning how to fight. Rauf was upon him immediately. “I’ll take care of him, g-go to Altaïr,” he said to Malik as he drew his own weapon, desperate to make amends. Malik nodded at him, seemingly too anxious to be angry, because at the time all Rauf could see in his eyes was desperation.

Rauf concentrated on his fight. Abbas was not an incapable fighter, but between Malik’s flying knife and whatever he had done tonight, he proved no match for Rauf, who was obviously not an incapable fighter either. Abbas was going to lose, and that knowledge turned his moves impulsive and ugly. The fight was over nearly as soon as it began.

“Kill me, then,” Abbas said, with Rauf’s blade biting into his neck. “I am glad to see that your admiration for Altaïr has not damaged your swordplay, Rauf.”

“You are not fit to speak his name,” Rauf said, and tied him up.

“Your idol,” said Abbas, “has lied and manipulated his way to the top. If anything, his name is not fit for me to speak of. Or maybe,” he studied the look on Rauf’s face, “you know all about it. Has he granted you any _favors_? I would think it difficult to admire any man after he offered his body for you, but obviously your mind might work in a different way—”

Rauf punched him in the face, which stopped him from talking. He turned his head to see how Malik was reacting to Abbas’ little speech, and saw that Malik was standing there, not giving out any visible reaction at all, just staring at Altaïr, who was not moving either.

Rauf’s heart sank, had they been too late? Had his misconception of the scene he had witnessed cost Altaïr’s life? The guilt dropped on him like a bucket of ice.

“Malik?” he called out weakly.

There was no indication that Malik had heard. Abbas laughed. Rauf made his way towards Altaïr and Malik, mind blank.

“I’ve lost him,” Malik finally noted his presence, and said, extremely quietly.

Rauf did not know what to say.

Malik buried his face in his hand, and so it came to pass that Rauf thought he saw Altaïr’s left hand twitch, looked at Malik cautiously to confirm what he had just witnessed, while Malik gave out no signs that he saw anything.

The hope in his heart was almost painful, but Rauf grabbed Altaïr’s left wrist, and it was only when he felt the faint beat of a pulse that he remembered to breathe.

“Malik,” he said. “Altaïr’s not dead.”

Malik stared at him for some time, before asking, “Can you repeat that?”

“He’s not dead!” Rauf repeated, almost giddy with relief, before he realized that despite that, Altaïr was still as far from all right as he could be. His breathing had improved – previously it had been so faint, it was no wonder Malik thought him dead. He was not bleeding, mostly, but what was left of his robes (thinking about what had happened made Rauf feel stabs of guilt again, he averted his eyes) were covered with blood, so the blood loss could be no trifle. His right shoulder was dislocated – Rauf did not want to think that it might have exacerbated his earlier injury there. He was still unconscious. “We need a doctor, but Altaïr’s still alive.”

Malik took hold Altaïr’s hand that Rauf had relinquished to him, and his face broke into such relief after he felt Altaïr’s pulse too, “Yes, you’re right.” He did not let go of Altaïr’s hand as he looked at Rauf, “We need to get him a doctor… but thank Allah.”

“I’ll go,” Rauf said, desperate to make amends. “But I can reduce the dislocation first, so as to lessen the damage.”

Besides being the combat instructor – or, perhaps, because of it, Rauf was also quite proficient in treating injuries. He was thankful for Altaïr’s state of unconsciousness now, because fixing dislocations was never a happy job.

He popped the joint back into its original location with a terrible, ugly sound, and saw Altaïr’s eyes open. For a moment there Rauf thought there was going to be a struggle, but as Altaïr tried to tug his left hand free, he noted the person holding it, and he relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning Rauf... he has always been a bit oblivious to me, especially when my Altaïr was training and completely failing everything before by some miracle manages to do a combo kill, and I'd hear him go, "Work of a master!" After that I'd blush and bury my hand in my hands, and pretend that Rauf is just a guy who admires Altaïr so much that everything he does is perfect, instead of, you know, I suck at playing video games and the real Altaïr would probably kick everyone's asses in a second. Thus, when he saw the scene in Altaïr's room he would not think it was sexual assault, because it's impossible for him to think that Abbas could overpower Altaïr.  
> I do love Rauf. He's such a nice guy. :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go find a doctor. Doctor talks about things. Malik talks about things. Altaïr is kind of messed up in the head. Malik talks to Abbas and regrets it.  
> So, filler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I would've liked. Mostly because nothing happens in this chapter and I got annoyed with myself a lot while writing.

Rauf came back with a doctor after what felt like an unnecessarily prolonged period of time. Before Rauf went, Abbas tried to say something – deciding to abandon his previously prudent silence, but Rauf punched him out cold before the second word was out of his mouth. This Malik appreciated.

He would have appreciated it more if Rauf had just killed him. Abbas was no longer a member of the brotherhood. He deserved to die.

He would also have appreciated it if Rauf had told him immediately what he had seen. If Rauf had come to him sooner, or just came to Altaïr’s aid, then none of this would have happened. He could not refrain himself from saying to Rauf, before he left, “I am glad your judgment of the situation wasn’t as impeded this time.” He immediately regretted it, tried telling himself that Rauf was not to blame – the true culprit was lying in the corner. Also, he did not want Altaïr to know from the implications of his words that help had fleetingly halted at the doorsteps, before taking off again.

Malik should not have worried about the last part. Altaïr was staring off into space, he probably heard nothing. Besides the display of recognition when he woke up, Altaïr had made no attempt of communication. He had not spoken even one word, and seemed to be indifferent to his surroundings, even when his eyes settled briefly on Abbas in the corner. Malik was sure that was not a good sign.

The doctor was familiar to Malik. He had often treated his and Altaïr’s wounds, even one time when they had got a little too frisky in the bedroom. The man had tight lips, which was why Malik had asked Rauf to find him specifically.

After a brief examination, during which Altaïr still remained impassive, though he did respond when the doctor told him to open his mouth in order to peer down his throat. The doctor said to Malik in a tone that suggested he did not like what he saw, “Some of these injuries were older, why did you not let me know when you asked me to take a look at the shoulder? You’ve come to me even when the situation was more … inconvenient.”

Malik wondered why he was talking to him instead of asking Altaïr, and answered, “We thought the situation wasn’t serious and Altaïr said I could handle it?”

“Right,” the doctor took out his equipment and started treating Altaïr’s wounds. “I could stitch these new cuts up, but the old ones … whoever inflicted them had made them very close together, so stitching is out of the question,” he sighed, and went on saying, “You did a fairly good job with them, fortunately, and so the fact that you did not seek out correct treatment from someone knowledgeable is only the least of my concerns.”

“Yes?” Malik asked despite himself. Ever since the loss of his arm he had learnt to be apprehensive about the words of doctors when they looked that way, harbinger of bad news, telling you to make decisions when you were – like the stories the Greeks told – between Scylla and Charybdis.

Another reason – one he would never admit – for asking Rauf to find this particular doctor was that he was not the one who decided that he could not keep his arm.

As if right on cue, the doctor said, “I’m a little worried about his arm.”

“What about it?” Malik kept his voice even.

“You did a good job getting the joint back into place,” the doctor said.

“Rauf did,” Malik grunted. As if an one-armed man could do that, he was beginning to have serious doubts about the doctor’s capabilities now – but they had known each other for so long, a bond forged by trial of blood and occasional embarrassment, one might say.

Rauf, who had been standing in the corner next to Abbas, ostensibly intending to prevent him from further mischief, snapped out of his guilty misery at the sound of his name, and looked at them in trepidation. Malik inclined his head slightly at Rauf in what he hoped to be an assuring manner, though, if any of his feelings showed, it might seem to be more of a tense, unhappy gesture.

“Then, Rauf did a good job,” the doctor continued. “Still, with the previous stab wound, and now with the dislocation, I am worried that he might not regain full function of the arm. But that is only a possibility, and I’ll see what measures can be taken to alleviate the damage.”

“But, still, you say it’s only a possibility,” Malik said.

“Yes,” the doctor sounded far too sympathetic, but Malik let it go.

“Well, what’s next? Tell me all the bad news.”

“Fortunately, regarding the … attack, there was sufficient lubrication to ensure that matters down there was not as serious as one might expect,” the doctor said, as if saying that would make things better. It hadn’t. Less suffering was still suffering. Malik said nothing. “The thing I’m most worried is the fact that he was hit on the head, and then strangled,” the doctor continue. “I have noticed with some of my patients that head injuries and deprivation of air could lead to deterioration of the mind… though Altaïr seems to be quite aware currently, which is a good thing.”

“He hasn’t spoken a single word,” Malik said.

“Oh, that. The strangulation caused damage to his throat, I think he’ll find it hard to speak for days to come. If the swelling goes down he’ll regain his voice.”

“If?”

“I make no promises,” the doctor said.

 

Altaïr had a high tolerance for pain, so when he woke up from being strangled, he did not lose himself in the sudden onslaught of agony. _Why does it hurt more when things have actually stopped?_ He kept his head, like any good assassin would, and attempted to eliminate any possible threats. It was soon proved unnecessarily, as he noticed that _Malik_ was holding his hand.

Altaïr usually had more instances of body contact with his assassination targets than with his brothers and allies. This time he reluctantly admitted in his hand that it was nice to have someone he liked touching him, so he relaxed.

Malik was fuming quietly beside him, still holding his hand. The doctor arrived and he chattered and tried to put things back together. Altaïr felt it was best to go along with everything. He was not in the mood to put up a fight, anyway.

See, he wanted to say to Malik, I can play nice now, isn’t it great? But he couldn’t make the sounds, he heard the doctor say something about waiting for the swelling to go down. He wanted to inform Malik that the doctor didn’t know what he was doing, the problem wasn’t with his throat, the problem was that he could not even muster the strength to open his mouth. But he couldn’t make the sounds, so he stared at the ceiling.

It must be because he was too tired, or perhaps his mind had really been affected by the attacks, like the doctor said, so he forgot how to move his lips to speak. When he woke up and realized that he could take in air, he had at first been completely confused of his surroundings, and perhaps that was a bad sign. Yet he was not confused now, hadn’t been since he felt Malik holding his hand. He could hear what they were saying, and _think_.

Perhaps he should stop thinking.

Abbas was tied up in a corner. Apparently it was Rauf’s doing. Altaïr wondered how Rauf found rope, because _Altaïr_ certainly didn’t have any in his _room_. The conclusion must be that Rauf carried rope around with him … which was convenient in this case, but very confusing. Why would Rauf carry rope on his body…? Perhaps he really should stop thinking.

Malik was inquiring specific details relating to the caretaking of someone. The name skipped Altaïr’s attention, due to a sudden burst of headache. It took him longer than he would have liked to realize that Malik was talking about _him_ , because Malik said, “Taking care of Altaïr will be difficult.”

Altaïr wanted to protest that he did not need looking after. He wasn’t the sort of person who needed looking after.

He didn’t.

 

Altaïr woke up wishing that he hadn’t.

He noted that he was in Malik’s room, again, and Malik was at his desk, writing something, again. He felt that his head was cleared than it had been – he could only remember snippets of things after he had woken up from being strangled. He had been whining a lot – in his head, but whining nevertheless – the memory of that disgusted him. It was fortunate that he could not speak then.

He tried to say something and discovered that he still could not speak now.

Malik had noticed that he had rejoined the world of living. He scurried to Altaïr’s bedside and asked, in a very kind voice, “Are you feeling all right?”

Altaïr glared at him and gestured for something to write with.

It was only after Malik got him the writing materials that Altaïr remembered that the fact that he could not move his right arm meant that he could not write with his right hand. He grabbed the quill in his left hand. Malik watched him worriedly.

Altaïr wrote down, “Yes.” He thought about it, and added, “As I should be.”

Malik stared and stared at what Altaïr wrote, and finally said, “Look, I know your handwriting is terrible—”

Altaïr glared some more, though he felt less angry than he showed. Malik being nice was not something he enjoyed very much currently.

“And writing with your left hand does not improve it, at all,” Malik continued. “So I must be reading it wrong. Are you trying to inform me that you ‘should be’ fine?”

Altaïr wrote, “Yes.”

Malik sat down, gently took Altaïr’s hand, and said in an even kinder voice than before, “Altaïr, just remember that you are not alone.”

Frankly, Altaïr could handle the instances of respect Malik gave him after the botched assassination of Robert de Sable – even with some elation, he admitted to himself – but this was too much. These words nearly caused him to break out in hysterical laughter.

What actually happened was that Altaïr rolled over in silent, gasping intakes of air, which caused Malik to think that he was having a seizure of some sort. Altaïr had to make some very forceful gestures with his hands to convince Malik, before they both finally calmed down.

Then again, Altaïr reflected, even if Malik enjoyed calling _Altaïr_ “novice,” he might have adopted some other kind of style when talking to people other than Altaïr, so he wasn’t acting completely out of character. Surely he could not be sarcastic and biting all the time. True, Malik had every informant in Jerusalem shaking at his very name, but he might have been warm and gentle with someone else. Probably Kadar. As soon as the thought came into his head Altaïr knew another reason why he did not want Malik talking to him in this way. So he wrote, “You don’t have to be so worried. The doctor said that I should be fine.” To illustrate the point, he continued with, “What have you done with Abbas, by the way?”

Altaïr discovered that the circumstances were in his favor, after all. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the shakiness and general unintelligible nature of his handwriting. Being unable to speak and having to communicate by hand meant that Malik was concentrated more on the piece of parchment. Therefore, he managed to keep the attack of nausea and revulsion from Malik, and act in a generally nonchalant manner.

It took some time before Malik deciphered Altaïr’s writing and made a reply, with a lot of effort as well, judging by the pained look on his face.

“He’s in the dungeons,” Malik said. “We could not execute him right away, even if he has betrayed us and should have died immediately. We await your orders.”

During the time in his room, Altaïr had cursed himself for showing mercy, wishing that he had killed Abbas, brother or not, when he had the chance. Contrary to popular (Malik’s) opinion, Altaïr was not suicidal or stupid: of course he did not want to die in such a meaningless manner. But, wishing for Abbas’ demise or not, when he now faced the decision to strip the man of his life, he found that he had little interest in making it.

Nevertheless, Abbas was a danger to the order. Altaïr wondered if the Apple had anything to do with his sudden insanity, just as it had driven Al Mualim mad. Whatever the reason, he could see it clearly now, anything less than taking Abbas back in time to witness his own father’s suicide would be insufficient to dissipate the hate in his heart, and even that might not be enough, he would most probably just accuse Altaïr of creating illusions.

His hate Altaïr could live with, but instability he could not. Altaïr had received his share of lessons in unintentionally hurting other people who never deserved what they got.

Altaïr nodded at Malik, who looked relieved. After this, Altaïr found that he did not feel like communicating further – writing in his present state was more strenuous than he had expected, another reminder of his own folly – but he needed something to do, so he absent-mindedly drew doodles on the piece of parchment Malik handed to him.

“These things are expensive,” Malik said, looking at him scrawling out lines. “I did not give them to you so you could scribble all over them. Think of the brotherhood and find something else to play, novice.”

Since Malik was doing his best to lighten the mood, Altaïr thought that it was best to reciprocate, so he wrote “for you” over the various plants he had just sketched out, and shoved it in Malik’s chest. Malik looked at it and Altaïr caught his lips curling into a smile.

“I am amazed that you can draw with your left hand – wait, I see, since your writing seems to have stayed the same, there is no reason why your drawing skills should differ,” Malik said, and sighed, “I would have considered it a better gift if it did not have your handwriting all over the place. It ruins the artistry.” But he put it with his important documents before getting Altaïr a fresh piece of parchment.

Altaïr belatedly recognized that it was daytime – he had not been paying attention to his surroundings and that also disgusted him. “Have I been here all night?”

“Mostly, yes, after the doctor determined that your head injury is not that serious, he let me take you here to sleep things off,” Malik said.

Altaïr remembered almost nothing about the doctor’s treatments, nor did he care much to. He was more concerned about how Malik had spent the night. He looked pointedly at the bed, on which he himself was lying, then at Malik, then at the bed again.

“I didn’t sleep last night, anyway,” Malik answered.

Upon hearing those words, Altaïr felt inexplicable rage bubble inside of him. He quickly extinguished it. Why was he angry at Malik? No, he wasn’t angry at Malik.

Still, he had, perhaps, applied too much force when he wrote, “I have a room. You didn’t have to give up yours.”

Malik was actually at a loss for words. But it could be because Altaïr’s unnecessary application of force rendered his writing even more unintelligible, and it was too much for even Malik. Altaïr closed his eyes, he was being unreasonable, of course his own room would be unsuitable for human inhabitation, and of course Malik would want to keep a close eye on him.

Feeling that he should continue their stunted conversation, like a normal person, Altaïr kept his eyes closed and pretended to have fallen asleep.

Malik either bought his pretense, or he tolerated it. Altaïr was not disturbed.

This meant that Altaïr kept thinking about things, and one thing jumped out at him: the Apple, current source of his misfortunes, hidden safely away, and, instead of wanting to smash it to pieces – he doubted he could damage it, even if he had wanted to – felt a strange connection, as if he could find answers in it.

Altaïr wasn’t aware that he was looking for answers. He had not even any questions to ask, not really. He wanted to be back to his usual self again, but all assassins knew that only time (and prudent care) heals.

He heard Malik leave the room.

 

It was easy to hear footsteps echoing in the dungeons. Abbas lifted his eyes and saw that he had a visitor.

He had no intention of talking to Malik, for all the man’s stubborn adherence to the Creed he was on Altaïr’s side in the end. He might not have killed Abbas, even allowed the doctor to patch him up to stop him from bleeding out, but the end results would still be the same. Abbas knew that he would die, branded a traitor, with the order still under Altaïr’s control, and that filled him with resentment.

Perhaps Malik had come to admonish Abbas for damaging Altaïr too much that he failed to be any good in bed: that was a thought. But Malik just stood there, not saying a word. Presumably he stared at Abbas with eyes filled with hate, Abbas did not know, he would not look at Malik.

Finally Malik said, “Why?”

“I’m surprised that you came here to ask the question,” said Abbas. “I thought that you were content enough just abiding by the Creed and the words of your … _brothers_. Anyway, hasn’t Altaïr given you his version of the story yet? He’s good at coming up with explanations.”

“I don’t want to pain him with the recollection of what has happened,” Malik said bitterly. “I would have just let the matter go completely, but I can’t. I know you’ve always hated him, but to do _this_?”

“Just because you find it easy to forgive him doesn’t mean it’s the same for the rest of us,” said Abbas. “He dishonored my father.”

“So you thought it proper revenge to ‘dishonor’ him?” Malik asked in apparent disbelief. “Is that why you did it? What is wrong with you?”

“That’s a novel explanation, Malik,” said Abbas – and to think previously he had never thought much of the man’s imagination! “But, no. ‘Dishonoring’ him would be a sweet revenge indeed, but, to dishonor a man means that he needs to have honor in the first place.”

“That’s enough,” Malik said with a hint of anger. “I am a fool for coming here. You obviously let your misguided hatred get out of hand.”

He was going to leave, and Abbas could not help himself, “To answer your question, I just thought I might have some fun before I killed him. I didn’t think Altaïr minded much, you know how he is. I made a mistake. If I killed him sooner, our positions would be reversed now, Malik. And he wasn’t _that_ good a fuck. The rumors have greatly exaggerated.”

“What are you talking about?” Malik demanded.

“Don’t tell me you also didn’t know.” Though it made sense, in a way, Malik was not the type to indulge in gossip either. “You think that Altaïr has been _faithful_ to you?” He looked at Malik now and the expression on the other man’s face filled him with unfathomable glee, “How can you not have noticed? Also, you saw what he did with Al Mualim, so, Master Assassin at twenty-five, how did you think that was possible?”

Malik said, one word at a time, “He became Master Assassin at twenty-five because he is good at what he does. I am a fool for even reasoning with you.”

“Still, you cannot deny that Al Mualim had a certain _soft spot_ for him, you were there, weren’t you?” Abbas said, not really trying to convince Malik – he was too far gone for that, but it was fun to goad him.

Malik’s eyes darkened and his fist hit Abbas’ face. “I don’t believe in excessive cruelty,” said Malik. “But you deserve what you get.”

 

Malik had gone to talk to Abbas because he wanted to know what exactly had happened, now that Altaïr had woken up and seemed relatively fine, and he certainly did not want to ask _Altaïr_ about the proceedings of that night. Unfortunately, interrogating Abbas was a little different than interrogating less-than-innocent civilians. The usual approach of beating them until they talked was not as effective – Malik did hit him, though it only served to alleviate some of the unpleasant feelings that arose within him after hearing Abbas’ words. In the end he had learnt nothing and walked out of the dungeons regretting that he had ever set foot in it.

Altaïr was still, more or less, where Malik had left him. His situation had improved somewhat, though he still could not speak he was up and about, and now he was wandering listlessly in Malik’s room.

“I thought I told you to rest?” Malik said.

Altaïr held up a piece of parchment. “I’m bored. I want to go out.” It was written in a considerably clearer hand than what Malik had been used to, but then, his eye caught a pile of parchment that was lying about the bed and which seemed to be covered with ink and mysterious symbols. He sighed.

“If you could walk straight for more than twenty steps, then yes, otherwise I think it would be better for you to stay here,” Malik said, not wanting Altaïr to exert himself too much.

He waited for Altaïr to argue, but no argument came. Instead, Altaïr went in a corner and started fiddling with Malik’s books. He took one out, though he probably had already read it. Malik had not done any updating to his bookshelves since Altaïr had last been here for an extended amount of time, moving to Jerusalem almost as soon as it was possible to do so.

Altaïr was behaving … almost normally. He was Altaïr after all. Perhaps Malik should not have worried so much, but this was a situation that he never had faced before, and so he had no idea what to expect.

Rauf had said to him last night, with a mournful countenance, “I hear that the Rafiq in Acre needs more men?” So now he was preparing himself for a sort of guilty self-exile in Acre. Malik had agreed to it because it seemed to be the only way to ease Rauf’s guilt, and also because he was still slightly angry at Rauf.

Now, he wondered if he should have let Rauf stay, it would be beneficial to have at least one friend. Still, Altaïr seemed relatively functional, if easily tired, judging from their earlier “conversation,” but that was to be expected, wasn’t it?

 

After a couple of days, Altaïr finally looked well enough for Malik, that he did not fuss as much when Altaïr told him he wanted to go out. Altaïr supposed that if he really pushed for it, he might be out of the room earlier: it wasn’t like he was imprisoned in Malik’s room by any account. But he never felt like arguing nowadays, and it was all right staying in Malik’s room, “ruining” (as Malik called it) Malik’s parchment with his doodles. He had got remarkably better with his left hand: his writing was almost intelligible to the common person now, Malik had remarked.

Nevertheless, there was not much he could do. Thinking about that made Altaïr feel that he was both empty and burning at the same time.

Which was why he found himself walking towards the vault in which he had hidden the Apple.


End file.
